


Words To Live By

by rosy_cheekx



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Anthology, Chronal Disassociation, Day At The Beach, Domestic Fluff, Drag Queens, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Gen, Light Angst, M/M, Microfic, Multi, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Panic Attacks, Pining, Prompt Fill, Seaside, Tumblr Prompt, or - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-15 11:47:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 1,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29932956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosy_cheekx/pseuds/rosy_cheekx
Summary: A series of microfic prompts based on 1-3 word prompts, ideally 3-10 sentences each. (ha!) All fluff with a smattering of other emotions.Example:“Jon-Hey, Jon? Don’t fall asleep on me, okay? You gotta stay awake.”Martin’s words washed through Jon’s senses like a low tide, just the barest whisper of comprehension.“M’hn?” Jon mumbled, eyes drifting open and finding Martin’s face, obscuring most of his vision. “Bu’ I’m tired.”
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Sasha James, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Sasha James & Tim Stoker
Comments: 11
Kudos: 35





	1. Sunbathing

Martin couldn’t stop staring. Jon was beautiful like this (well, he was _always_ beautiful). His hands were folded beneath his head, errant flyaway curls obscuring his fingers and swirling around his head and trailing into the sand like some sort of coronet. His eyes were closed, face soft and unfettered by the stresses of life. His cheeks were pink from their hours in the sun and Jon’s stubborn insistence that he did _not need to put on more suncream Martin, I’m fine._ He was wearing a pair of swim trunks, but besides that he was naked. Jon’s scars told the stories of his battles in curving lines and swirls and dots, like some sort of foreign morse code, littered across his skin in sweeps of buried memories. 

Jon was beautiful like this, peaceful and dozing in the sun, akin to the cat he was insisting they get. He would always be beautiful in Martin’s eyes.

He was beautiful even as Martin upended a bucket of cold seawater onto his abdomen.

He was beautiful as he shrieked and stumbled after Martin, trying to get a grip on the sand as he chased after his husband into the waves.

He was beautiful when he leaped onto Martin’s back.

He was especially beautiful as he was splashing him and laughing outlandishly into the sky. 

Jon was beautiful when he was free.


	2. Trembling Hands

Martin tipped a hand under Jon’s chin as he guided the glass of water to his lips with delicate dexterity. “Take these, love, you’ll be alright.”

Jon was shaking, lost in the memory of wherever, _whoever_ he was in the moment. His hands trembled as he gripped Martin’s wrist, too weak to do harm. His eyes were open but they were unfocused, and they closed as the cool water, accompanied by a sedative, slid down his throat easily. This happened less and less than it had after the apocalypse had ended, but it was just as scary each and every time.

Martin tucked Jon against his side and rocked him gently, pressing his nose into Jon’s hair and letting the curls soak up the few tears that sprung from his eyes involuntarily. “You’ll be okay, my love, you’ll be okay.” He wasn’t sure which of them he was comforting.


	3. Dust Motes

“Martin!” Tim shouted, cheek pressed against the floor of Martin’s hardwood. “I found some more boxes.”

“Seriously?” Martin appeared out of nowhere, joining Tim on the ground before helping slide out a couple of large Tupperware. “Oh god, they’re covered in dust.” He blew on the blue lids of the boxes before popping the lid. “ _Oh no.”_

“Spill, loverboy!” Tim craned his neck. Inside were stacks of pictures. Young Martin, alongside his mum at the pier. Teen Martin, with a bad dye job and an awkward thumbs up, school tie slung haphazardly. “Jon!” Tim called, glee unfettered. “You’re gonna want to see this.”

Martin thumbed through more pictures: some sweet, some embarrassing, some just poor photography skills. At last, he flipped to a small stack of Polaroids, because _of course_ Martin had a polaroid, Mr. Lo-Fi Charm. 

Most of them seemed to be artsy photos of the Magnus Institute. The library, the stained glass, and marble busts that lined the halls that visitors walked. As Jon examined the last one, he paused. “Uh, Tim? Martin?” He held out a photo. 

It was of three figures, clearly taken in the library, near the section on famous hauntings. Martin was in the middle, holding the camera for a selfie. Tim was on his left, cheesing and holding up a peace sign. To the right was a woman none of them recognized. She was tall, with smooth dark skin interrupted by vitiligo, and wild curls pinned back with a handkerchief. She was wearing a pale blue sweater and was smiling so wide her eyes were practically shut. She was _not_ a petite Asian woman, with smooth black hair and sharp features, who always dressed a little too formally for the workplace. She was _not_ wearing bright red nail polish or pursing her lips at music she had once loved. 

“Sasha.” Martin breathed. They sat in silence for a long while, staring at the best friend they had never met.


	4. Svelte

Despite all his pomp and circumstance, Tim doesn’t really find himself “pretty.” Is he sexy? Yes, according to statistics. Is he attractive? Again, yes. But “pretty” isn’t quite the word he would ever use to describe himself.

But here he is, sitting cross-legged on Sasha’s bed as she throws a variety of items at him, trying to catch and examine them before the next bout of fabric hits him in the face. 

“Sasha, this is too much, it’s just for fun,” he protested, all the while knowing it was a lost cause.

“It’s _drag_ , Tim. No such thing as too much. We’re practically the same size anyways.” She grabs a handful of items from the mess on her bed and thrusts them into his arms. “Fine. I’ll make you subtle. These.”

When she finishes his makeup and aligns himself with her mirror, Tim is amazed by what he sees. An elegant dusty-rose-colored scoop-neck dress that accentuated his collarbones and hips, a series of gold bangles, gold-tipped heels. Dark pinks and golds and bronze accentuate his lips, eyeliner he is used to wearing subtly now magnified, a few pink peonies clipped into his coiffed hair. 

“ _Sash_ ,” Tim breathes, hands aflutter, unsure where to explore first: the smooth fabric clinging to his thighs, his well-managed curls, the jawline that has never before looked _dainty._ “I look so pretty.”


	5. Nap

“Jon-Hey, Jon? Don’t fall asleep on me, okay? You gotta stay awake.”

Martin’s words washed through Jon’s senses like a low tide, just the barest whisper of comprehension.

“M’hn?” Jon mumbled, eyes drifting open and finding Martin’s face, obscuring most of his vision. “Bu’ I’m tired.”

“I know, I know darling.” Darling sounded nice coming from Martin’s lips like that. “It’s been a long day, but we are quite literally in a restaurant. I think they’ll kick us out. Especially if you put your face right in the lasagna.” 

“‘s not my fault someone was kicking me in his sleep,” Jon muttered, before taking a long sip of his ice water. 

“Fuck off,” but there was no animosity in Martin’s voice. “You can fall asleep in the lorry. Just give me literally five minutes to get the takeaway boxes.” 

The twenty-minute cab ride on the way to their flat might have been the nicest nap he’d ever had.


	6. Something About Him

_“I don’t know what it is_!” Martin groaned into the olive green velveteen pillow on Sasha’s couch. “I know he’s my boss, and I know it’s totally, _totally_ unrequited, but I just…” Martin trailed off and pressed his face further into the pillow. 

Sasha withheld her chuckles for when she could call Tim later to debrief. “Okay, well, is it the fact that he’s mean to you every time he speaks with you? Or how he grumbles instead of speaking? Or how I’m pretty sure the accent is fake and he’s actually, I dunno, American or Italian or something.”

“No! That’s stupid.” Martin insisted, pulling his face out of the pillow, curls rumpled, to glare daggers her way. “It’s something about how…” He thinks. “No matter how mean he seems, the meanness never reaches his eyes. He’s clearly under a lot of pressure and he’s hurting, and he always takes the tea I make him, even when he’s pissed off.”

Sasha watched the way Martin’s face relaxed when he spoke, eyes cast into the middle distance as he focused on his thoughts. W _ow,_ she thought to herself, words she wouldn’t dare speak aloud for fear of getting a pillow thrown at her face. Y _ou’re really head over heels for Jonathan-fucking-Sims, aren’t you?_


End file.
